Believer
by 59icewolf
Summary: "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him." John Watson's life had come to revolve around one purpose: Sherlock Holmes. And though he was dead, John seemed to be seeing him everywhere. Post-Reichenbach Fall. Slight Johnlock.


**Hello everyone! Thanks for checking out my story. I'm sure it's been done a couple thousand times, but I couldn't help putting my little spurt out there. I'm crazy about Sherlock and John. So, please enjoy and let me know if you like it! I'm hoping to make it a multi-chapter fic!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock and all it's rights belong to BCC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just love playing around with John and Sherlock:)**

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John stood solemnly, tapping his index and middle finger against his thigh. "… You were the best man and the most human- human being that I've ever know. And no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie… So… There.." he groaned, turned to watch Mrs. Hudson walk away, before looking back to the emerald black head stone. Cautiously he took a few steps forward, patting the top of the stone.

"I was so alone… And I owe you so much." John's sigh came out choked. He turned away, taking a few steps. But he didn't get far before he whipped back around, not being able to leave with out saying it.

"Oh, please. There's just one more thing- one more miracle, Sherlock. For me… Don't. Be… Dead." His voice cracked on the last word. "Would you do that? Just for me." His whispers broken. "Just stop it. Stop this." His breathing came out his huffs, finally breaking him. John covered his face, letting out a few strangled sobs, before wiping away the tear tracks.

Straightening back up after a moment, John stood in a ridge solider posture. He gave a single nod and turned, walking away.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Walking past the silver gates, John could see the cab still waiting for him. Clenching his jaw he strode over and opened the door swiftly, sliding in next to Mrs. Hudson.

"You all right, deary?" Mrs. Hudson pat his shoulder soothingly.

John didn't speak, afraid his voice may crack and betray him. So he nodded, hoping she wouldn't ask any questions that would require him to talk. Fortunately the ride back to Baker Street was left in silence. But as the cab came to stop at 221B, John's legs refused to move. Mrs. Hudson payed the driver and looked to John.

"Do you not want to at least collect a change of clothes, dear?"

"I… I-" The words couldn't seem to form properly in his mouth. His eyes were glued to the numbers on the door.

"All right, dear. It's fine. You do what you need to do." Mrs. Hudson smiled and was about to shut the door when John's hand shot out to catch it.

"Mrs. Hudson, don't touch any of Sher-" the name burned his throat, "-our stuff. Just leave it. I'll take care of it." The words sprung from nowhere, but the sudden thought of entering his flat to have none of Sherlock's disgusting experiments brewing was too unbearable. He would rather everything stay in its proper place- well, Sherlock's accordingly proper placement.

"All right, dear." She smiled ruefully back, obviously seeing John's pain.

John gave a solemn nodded and shut the door. He watched Mrs. Hudson enter and close 221B.

"Where to, sir?"

John was veered from his thoughts by the cabby. "Um, 222 North Glower Street."

It was another twenty minutes of silence, as they maneuvered through the busy London streets. The cab finally slid to a halt outside a plain grey apartment building. Sighing, John paid the driver and slipped out. He stared up at the sky for a moment, clenching and unclenching his hand to shake off the unease, then walked over to the panel of buzzers. In the second column the first buzzer engraving read, 'Watson,' and he pressed it.

"Hello?"

"Harry, it's John." There was no response for several second, but the front door beeped and unlocked. John opened the door and took his time going up the stairs to the second floor. He came to the first door and didn't even have to knock as the door flew open.

"John." Harry's face was etched with concern, "What's wrong?" She knew he would only come to her if things were- well, he never had come to her so it must be something horrible.

But John didn't want to answer any questions at the moment, he just wanted a cup of tea and a place to sleep- if he could get any. Not answering Harry's question, he stepped inside the apartment, immediately noticing it's cleanliness. Harry was never this clean. John didn't comment on this, but sat down on the brown leather couch.

"Are you all right, John?" No response. "Are you hurt?" Harry scanned with her eyes over his visible body, but saw nothing.

A few minutes passed before any more words were spoken, and it was John who broke the silence.

"No," was his single word response, and Harry understood this. No, he was not all right. And no, he was not hurt- not physically at least.

"Tea?" John perked up at that, nodding. A cup was set in front of him and he picked it up, slipping at it slowly. He looked up to thank Harry, but it was not Harry who had given it to him.

"Clara." John was surprise to see her, but immediately understood why the apartment was so clean. Her blond hair slipped over her eyes and she brushed it away, smiling shyly. He didn't know what to say, but settled for the normal polite response. "It's good to see you."

"You too, John." Her eyes flickered over to Harry before she disappeared back into the kitchen.

John and Harry drank their tea, prolonging it as long as possible, before setting their cups on the small coffee table. Harry was never the most patient, but John could tell she was trying.

"John, what's wrong?"

He sucked in a deep breath, "I… I don't think I can really talk about it right now."

"All right. Well… What can I do to help?" John didn't look up at Harry as she spoke, but rubbed a hand over his face. "Do you need a place to stay?" He nodded. "We have an extra room. Come with me." Harry stood up and walked toward the back of the room, leading down a short hall. She opened the first door and ushered him in. The room was small, with a twin bed in the right corner and a dresser with a lamp and mirror in the left. "I'm sorry its really small, but-"

"Thank you." John cut her off.

"Yeah." Harry left, closing the door behind her.

John walked over to the dresser, turning on the lamp. The room was dusty, probably because it was rarely entered. There was a few boxes stacked up by the end of the bed, but other than that, the room was bare. John looked around, not sure what to do, but eventually sat down on the bed.

He didn't bother removing his jacket or shoes, but laid down, curling onto his side. He could hear the occasional car drive by, but the room was quiet. John tried shutting his eyes, but all he kept seeing was St. Bart's Hospital and he was reminded of earlier that morning when he returned for some of Sherlock's belongings.

_"Here John, these are yours now." Molly handed him a white plastic bag, not being able to look him in the eye and walked straight out of the room the second it touched his hand. John opened the bag- just a peep- to find Sherlock's famous blue scarf on top. Unthinkingly he reaching his hand in and pulled it out, then he dropped the bag like it had burned his flesh. Because beneath the scarf was Sherlock's famous coat, and it burned him to see it._

John's eyes opened again, staring at the tan wall, the lamp in the corner still lighting the room. Rolling on to his back, John cautiously put his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the blue material. He held up the perfectly folded scarf so he could see it properly in the lamp light. But the moment his eyes made contact with the blue, he dropped it, letting it land on his chest. John swallowed thickly, not wanting the tears to creep out.

Hours passed as John stared up at the ceiling, his hands splayed across his chest, palms laying flat over Sherlock's scarf. He had no thought to ever want to move again. Some part of him wish to freeze like this, so he'd never have to go back to reality.

"John?" A light knock on the door proved he could never get his wish. "John?" The knob turn, the door creaking open, but he made no move to sit up or reply. "I brought you some food." A tray was set down next to his bed, and John finally looked away from the ceiling to the face roaming near the edge of his bed. It was Clara. He stared blankly at her for a moment. Her expression was much like Harry's when he'd first arrived, worried. But there was something else in her features that made John easen: sympathy.

"Thank you, Clara."

"You've lost someone haven't you?" He wasn't surprised that Clara figured it out so quickly, she'd always been more in-tune and compassionate than Harry. John nodded. "Here," Clara picked up the cup of tea she'd brought in for John, handing it over to him.

John sat up finally, leaning back against the wall and took the cup. Sipping at it, he could feel some of the built up tension easing away. Clara sat at the end of his bed watching him. John pretended not to notice.

"Was that his?" John looked down to where Clara eyed- his hand clutching Sherlock's scarf.

"Yeah," his hand tighten.

Clara stood up and smoothed his messy hair down soothingly, "I'm sorry." Then took his empty cup and left.

Thirty minutes later, John emerged from his room wondering down the hall to the kitchen- his hand stuffed in his pocket, clamped around the scarf. Clara stood by the sink, drying the tea cups and placing back in the cupboard.

"Does Harry usually work third shift?"

Clara startled, whipped her head around to see John standing in the kitchen entrance.

"No, she's just covering someone else's shift today."

"Ah."

"Are you feeling better?"

"Well enough."

Clara briefly eyed John's left hand stuffed in his pocket.

"Hungry?"

"No, not really." He wasn't exactly sure what to do with himself. "I'm going to go out for a bit." John was surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth, but decided it was a good idea. "Walk around for a bit."

Clara looked over at the ticking clock reading 12:36am. "All right. You'll be okay?"

"Yeah, fine. I'll be back."

"Here, then." Clara took a single key off a hook near the sink, handing it to John. "Take your time."

"Thank you."

Clara smiled tenderly, then turned back to drying dishes. John took the opportunity to slip away, closing the front door behind him and locking it with the newly acquired key.

The streets were light fairly bright, but it was still dark on the edges and allies. Far off John could see a fair amount of people walking in an intersection, and on the side walks many shady blokes mingled. John's thoughts flickered back to his desk drawer in his flat where he keeps his gun, but shook it off. There's no need for that now. If it came to, he could take a few drunks or incompetent thugs. Wasn't like he was chasing serial killers.

None the less, he wasn't going to pick fight where there needn't be one. So he zipped in his jacket, popped his collar and kept his head ducked as he strolled along. After walking for a good twenty minutes, John sat down on a bench next to a lamp post. He was near the edge of a park, and looking to the side he could see benches lining the fence, every four benches there was a post.

John tugged his jacket tighter and pulled his hand out of his pocket. He fingered at the frayed edges of the blue scarf- Sherlock's scarf. Unfolding it, he let the ends flutter in the wind before he swung it behind his neck and knotted it in the front; just as Sherlock had each time.

John Watson doesn't wear scarfs. He wasn't that sentimental either. Sentiment. Sherlock would laugh if he were here now. Yet, here John was. Alone.

Well, not exactly 'alone.' Several benches down, a man had materialized and John looked over at him curiously. Though, it was too dark to really see his face. But the man was tall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Maybe homeless, his clothes looked worn and his hair unkept- messy curls everywhere.

Curls…

John sat up, leaning over to try and get a better look. The same moment John looked over, the man stood and walked away, following the fence. Every time he passed under the lamps post, John could clearly see the messy dark curls.

John shook his head, his insomnia was making him delirious. Probably time to go back. But he couldn't help looking to where the curly haired man disappeared. A shadow now lurked near the end of the park.

Sighing, John stood up, trying to leave behind the fact that the man who had sat a few yards from him only minutes before, looked exactly like his best friend.

His recently deceased best friend…

A strong cup of tea and several sleeping pills hopefully would lessen the delirium. John walked back to Harry and Clara's apartment, tucking the scarf into his jacket and zipping it up tight.

When John finally made it to bed, the sleeping drugs flowing in his system didn't let him dream- not properly anyway. It was flashes of light and blur. Except for one moment. He saw a flash of yellow light, a head of messy brown curls- that mop of hair he'd recognize in an instant- leading down to a pale face he'd never forget.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Days passed, seemingly with out number. Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to drop off a bag of clothes. John kept to himself, staying in his room most of the time, only coming out when Harry was out working. When ever John did come out when Harry was home, it was constant pestering. 'What happened John? Is it that detective friend of yours? Why did he kill himself? Just forget him, John.' Sympathy and suaveness was never her strong points. And every time John would withdraw to his room, and Clara would scold her.

"Harry, John has lost someone very important to him. Try to be a little more gentle."

"All he does is sit in that room, staring at the ceiling. He needs to face reality."

"It's been a week. Please, show some condolence."

"I know. But this Sherlock bloke went off and killed himself. He took the easy way out and left John. He left him alone. I just don't want John suffering over this man."

"It doesn't matter, let him be. Give him time, Harry."

She'd usually huff and walk off after that, knowing Clara was right. John was grateful Clara was there to neutralize Harry.

Every night though, regardless whether Harry was up or not, John would go out for a walk. He'd go to the same spot, the same park bench every night at the same time. Part of him hoped to see the man he'd seen the first night; partially to prove he hadn't simply imagined him and partially to keep the hope of Sherlock alive. He knew it couldn't be him, but he liked to think it was. To think that he was still there, silently watching over John. That was much better that being dead, right? Maybe not. Maybe it was only prolonging pain. None the less, John came back every night, wearing the blue scarf tucked into his jacket.

But every night, John was disappoint. The man never came. Though, he swore someone was watching. He could feel it, his sixth sense pickled. Yet, he couldn't see anything. Darkness covered who ever hid in the shadows.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

After eight days at Harry's, things had started to get better. Unfortunately, that night wasn't so well. He didn't take any sleeping pills, afraid if he took them too often, its effectiveness would ware off. His dreams turned to nightmares.

_"I'm a fake… John… It's a trick, just a magic trick." He could see his body, posed on the edge of St. Bart's, hear his rasping words. "This phone call its- its my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." John felt his throat constricting, as if he was in a choke hold. "Goodbye John." And his body dropped off the edge. His flatmate. His best friend… His life. And all he could do was watch._

John shot up out of his bed, as if he had been falling. His shirt damp, beads of sweat dripping down his temple. John looked around the room, realizing it was not his, then covered his face with his hands, scrubbing his eyes. A few choked sobs escaped his tightly clammed lips.

"Oh god, Sherlock." John muffled his cry.

It was pain and anguish that had woken John, but as he got up and dressed it was anger that fueled him. He knew where he had to go.

Walking out, John left behind a stunned sister, having harshly lashed out the words, "Not now, Harry," as he passed by on his way to the door.

John flagged down a cab.

"Where to, sir?"

"Brompton Cemetery." This had to be done. The words needed to come out.

As John came to stand in front of the emerald black head stone, he found his breathing labored.

"Sherlock 'Bloody' Holmes," he mumbled. "Why'd you have to jump, gosh dammit? We could have worked it out dammit. Then we wouldn't be here. I believed in you, no matter what. I-" His breathing slowed. "I swear you'll be the death of me." John shook his head and gave in, exhausted. He plopped down onto the grass facing the head stone. "You all ready have been." He tugged at the scarf he hadn't noticed he'd wrapped around his neck, it had become a habit. "I'm a solider. I shouldn't be like this… But…" John ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

"Sherlock you… I died the same moment you hit the ground." John swallowed several times, clearing his throat. "There are a lot of things I didn't say when I had the chance. And I thought I could avoid ever speaking them, but I was wrong." John smile to himself, "Not like you were ever wrong, huh?" An agitated laugh escaped his mouth, "Well I guess we both are."

Part of John didn't want to rush this, so he took his time, staring at the gold lettering.

"You certainly were never one for sentiment, Sherlock Holmes. But I- I couldn't help it… I can't help it. You really grew on me. You were everything great that 'normal-'" John air quoted 'normal.' "-people lacked. Brilliant, marvelous, and above all, spectacularly ignorant. And you may not have been a hero in every sense of the word; but you saved me. I'm alive in every way because of you." John sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Damn, I'm being completely idiotic."

John stood back up, "I'm a heaping mess." His finger tips brush against his bristly chin and jaw. "Because of you, Sherlock. I- I…"

And suddenly John knew what he wanted.

"I want to go home."

No doubt in his mind, that's where John wanted to be. That's where he needed to be. And that's where he went.

Home.

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**Thank you for reading! Please review! If I get enough response, I'll be able to get the second chapter up a lot faster. It will start to get a lot more interesting:) Lots of love, thanks guys! REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW! **


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